


Midnight Remains

by ClaraxBarton



Series: Cocktail Fridays [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Champagne, Cocktail Friday, Fluff, M/M, New Year, New Year's Eve, Post-Canon, fancy things, grumpy people, new fluff, the literal fluffiest thing I have written in forever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 17:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13276608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Trowa and Zechs celebrate the New Year.For the Tumblr Cocktail Friday prompt (gif of champagne cocktail)





	Midnight Remains

A/N: For Cocktail Friday on Tumblr

 

A/N2: This is just a one shot. It doesn’t really fit in any of the worlds I’m writing right now, but I wanted some 6x3 smut so. There we go. Maybe it’s a follow-up to Anything.

 

A/N3: As always, thank you to Ro and Kangofu-CB, your support and beta reading mean the world to me. I wish the both of you a happy and wonderful new year.

 

Warnings: language, vague sexy times, drinking

 

Pairings: 6x3

 

_ Midnight Remains _

 

There was something to be said for being a prince without a kingdom.

 

It was glamorous, in a mysterious and distantly tragic kind of way.

 

It meant invitations to a lot of parties thrown by government officials, by the rich and would-be famous, by sycophants and enemies alike.

 

It was bullshit, in Trowa’s mind.

 

Trowa had decided that even before the first time he attended one of the soirees as Zechs’s companion. After two years of dating the man who had been the literal scourge of humanity - or had attempted to be - and attending an unfortunately countless number of them, Trowa’s opinion hadn’t changed.

 

At this point, it could be carved into Gundanium.

 

Then again, he knew that part of his antipathy towards the gatherings in their lavish surroundings, where everyone hid behind cool, polished facades and competed to say the wittiest thing and put themselves to their best advantage was, in large part, due to his own discomfort among a class of people that he had had very little interaction with before Zechs. 

 

And even  _ after _ meeting Zechs in post-war circumstances - at a Berlin nightclub, of all places - Trowa still didn’t have much interaction with these sort of people. Not outside of these damn parties.

 

Trowa’s position as a research librarian hardly lended itself to meeting the social elite.

 

Zechs had laughed, delighted at the irony, when Trowa had told him what he did for a living. Trowa had assumed that Zechs was laughing at  _ him _ , at the notion that a boy without a name, a boy who had grown up in the mud of trenches and the leather of cockpits, could even read. But Zechs had smirked and pressed hot kisses to Trowa’s spine, had bitten his ass just hard enough to make Trowa hiss in pain, and had whispered “those civilians have no idea one of the most dangerous men humanity has ever produced is standing there leafing through a two-hundred year old book on floral arrangements, do they?”

 

The words had sent a thrill through Trowa. He hadn’t known - or, at least, hadn’t wanted to admit - that part of himself resented being thought of as harmless and inconsequential, a mere librarian in a turtleneck, living his life buried in the stacks with the dusty tomes of humanity’s dreams.

 

But Zechs knew him. Zechs knew what he had been. What he had done. What he was capable of.

 

The other man had been persistent. That first night, in Berlin, Trowa had been on holiday, had decided that he had made far worse decisions in his life than to spend the weekend with his former enemy. On Sunday night, Zechs had taken Trowa to the train station, and had pulled him in for a searing, unforgettable kiss before Trowa boarded his train and returned to Paris in a daze.

 

He had thought that would be the end of it, had thought that, at the very least, maybe  _ now _ he finally had a story to top Duo’s tales of misadventure the next time his former comrade was dirtside for a visit.

 

But two weeks later, while at his desk in the bowels of the Richelieu Library, Trowa’s supervisor had called him to the front lobby for a matter of some urgency.

 

The urgent matter had turned out to be Zechs, crisp and cool in a tailored suit and black woolen overcoat, platinum-blond hair arranged just so, a smirk curving his lips and making Trowa’s heartbeat falter.

 

Trowa had known it was a bad idea - one weekend of mind-blowing sex in Berlin and a year of war as enemies were  _ not _ the recipe for a successful relationship. Not, of course, that he had much reference for what  _ did _ make a successful relationship. In the ten years since the Eve Wars, Trowa had had no trouble finding partners for sex, but  _ dating _ ,  _ relationships _ \- those had been utter failures. Three relationships that had lasted more than six weeks in all of that time, the longest relationship lasting a full six months. And then Trowa had told his lover who he was, what he had done. And the man, Albert, a grey-eyed Parisian whose brothers had been killed on Libra, had left that very night.

 

His instincts hadn’t been wrong. Not entirely.

 

They came from opposite ends of the social spectrum, and Zechs was… difficult. To put it mildly. Duo had laughed his head off when he finally visited Trowa, three months into his relationship with Zechs, had actually cried and been unable to string two words together for nearly fifteen minutes. 

 

Not that, Zechs assured him during their infrequent but excruciating fights, Trowa was  _ easy _ . He was anything but, and he was too aware of that. They both were.

 

Trowa tried to push him away - he had, after all, resigned himself to a life of meaningless sex. He sure as hell didn’t want someone as mercurial as Zechs to mean so much to him, to have so much power over his happiness. 

 

But Zechs was damned stubborn, and when Trowa’s rationale for ending their relationship never amounted to more than  _ we’re too fucked up for this to work _ , all Zechs would do is smirk and say that it was  _ because _ they were fucked up that it would work. 

 

There was nothing on Terra or in the entire System that would make his presence at these damn parties  _ work, _ however. 

 

He had had to rush to home from work, had been in a foul mood to begin with because celebrations in general and this one in particular set him on edge, and he had had a long and fruitless day at work.

 

Zechs had only been half-dressed when Trowa walked into the apartment they shared. The apartment that Zechs had insisted on buying only if  _ Trowa _ approved of it. Trowa, whose salary would never be able to cover more than a quarter of the mortgage. Zechs hadn’t argued with him, though, took the money from Trowa each month without a word or even an eyeroll, and Trowa knew Zechs understood why it was important to him, why being  _ kept _ didn’t sit well with him. 

 

It made the apartment theirs, even if it was unequal, and it meant that Trowa was able to relax when he stepped inside and closed the door behind himself. It meant that it was  _ home _ . A concept as novel as being in love, and just as hard for him to come to terms with.

 

Zechs took one look at his face, kissed him, and insisted on making Trowa a gin gimlet. 

 

Trowa was in no mood to argue, especially not when Zechs had taken the trouble of making lavender simple syrup the previous weekend just to pander to Trowa’s ridiculous obsession with the herb.

 

He should have sipped the drink slowly, should have savored it. But after two deep, satisfying gulps, he placed the empty glass on his dresser and shoved Zechs onto the bed.

 

“Let’s stay home,” he suggested, crawling on top of the larger man and nipping at his shoulders, his throat, his jaw.

 

Zechs gave a low, soft groan of pleasure, and his hands ran up Trowa’s thighs.

 

“We can’t,” Zechs said, and tilted his head to capture Trowa’s in a kiss.

 

“You’re Zechs Merquise. You can do anything you want,” Trowa reminded him after drawing in a rough breath. It wasn’t just the rush of gin that was making him unsteady. He had always been ridiculously aroused by Zechs - by the press of his lips, the way his large hands curled into Trowa’s flesh, the way his icy eyes melted into pools of endless blue.

 

“Not when my sister is running for re-election and the party is being thrown by some of her most influential supporters.”

 

Trowa groaned and rolled over onto the bed beside Zechs. He knew there would be no distracting the other man, not under those conditions.

 

While Zechs more or less lived a life of leisure, traveling the Earthsphere to oversee the myriad investments he had made and, Trowa was certain though he never asked, working at least occasionally for Une and the Preventers, he also put in some time and effort as his sister’s supporter. Not too actively, not too publically, but Dorothy Catalonia, the woman who had helped to mastermind Relena’s meteoric rise to power after the Eve Wars, knew exactly  _ who _ would appreciate having their hand pressed by Zechs, and bid him to do so.

 

Trowa suspected Zechs did it as a way to apologize to his sister. He also suspected that all  _ Relena _ wanted from her wayward brother was the chance to get to know him, but Dorothy was more than happy to manipulate the great well of Zechs’s regret to hers, and Relena’s, advantage.

 

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Trowa protested, petulant and knowing it.

 

Zechs shifted onto his side, supporting his weight on one elbow and smirking down at Trowa.

 

“You hate celebrating New Year’s Eve.”

 

“I know. Just think how much more I’m going to hate it after spending it at this party. Next year, I’ll be impossible to deal with.”

 

“Next year?” Zechs asked, smirk going soft, as he reached out one hand to trace along Trowa’s jaw. “So you’re already making plans?”

 

Another point of contention, especially early on in their relationship, was Trowa’s insistence that  _ he _ didn’t have a future, that Zechs certainly didn’t really need or want him in his own future. He didn’t like making plans, didn’t like trusting that tomorrow would give him opportunities instead of challenges, and finally agreeing to buy the apartment with Zechs last year had been the single most terrifying commitment Trowa had ever made.

 

He rolled his eyes.

 

“Yes, it seems that I am. Plans to be insufferable.”

 

“Ah, well, at least you still plan on being consistent, then.” Zechs moved out of the way of the knee Trowa aimed his way and rolled off the bed in one smooth, fluid motion that had his back muscles moving sensuously and Trowa wondering if maybe he could at least convince Zechs to be  _ late _ to the party.

 

Zechs stood between his legs and started to unfasten Trowa’s trousers.

 

Trowa folded his hands behind his head and lifted his eyebrows.

 

“Speaking of plans, what is yours at this moment?” he asked.

 

“To get you properly dressed.” Zechs tugged the trousers down. “It’s not every night I get to show you off in a tux.”

 

“No, it’s just once every two months,” Trowa complained.

 

“Is it really that bad?” Zechs asked, the teasing gone from his voice, as he slid his hand over Trowa’s ankle and pulled off his right shoe.

 

Trowa sighed. He knew that look. Knew that tone. 

 

“No,” he assured Zechs, “it’s not that bad.”

 

Zechs’s jaw tensed.

 

“You’re worth it, Zechs. You’re worth one night every two months of inane gossip and free food and excellent liquor. It’s a sacrifice I can make.”

 

Zechs snorted a laugh, but he was still tense as he dropped Trowa’s foot and picked up the other. He removed that shoe, and then finished pulling off Trowa’s trousers.

 

Trowa stood up, in just his briefs and his turtleneck, and pulled Zechs’s mouth down to his.

 

“I love you,” he reminded Zechs, three words that he still stumbled over, that he still feared.

 

“You love my cock,” Zechs said, lips curved into a smirk and breath hot against Trowa’s mouth as he pulled away.

 

“I do,” Trowa agreed, reaching down to give a gentle squeeze to his favorite of Zechs’s appendages before stepping away and pulling off his shirt.

 

He felt Zechs’s eyes on him as he dropped it to the floor and walked into their closet, but he refrained from looking over his shoulder at the other man.

 

Or, he tried to.

 

He made it just to the open door of the walk-in closet - more to accommodate Zechs’s wardrobe and his still very intact vanity than anything of Trowa’s - and had to turn his head slightly, just enough to see Zechs’s gaze fixed on him.

 

He arched one eyebrow in challenge.

 

“We’re going to be late,” Zechs said, voice mild.

 

“Fashionably?” Trowa asked with a smirk.

 

“No. We’re going to be very,  _ very _ unfashionably late by the time I’m through with you,” Zechs assured him.

 

They were, in fact, so late that they missed supper. 

 

Trowa couldn’t be bothered to care, however, not with the pleasant ache of being well-fucked and the loose, hazy feeling of contentment after being given spectacular head on the floor of their closet. Not when Zechs’s lackluster apology to their host for their tardiness included a sharp, heated look in Trowa’s direction.

 

Especially not when a passing server pressed a glass of champagne into Trowa’s hand.

 

They mingled, Zechs’s hand on the small of Trowa’s back, somehow both possessive and reassuring as he was introduced to the dozen or so guests - wealthy industrials, aristocrats, even a movie star. All a little awed by Zechs, all completely underwhelmed by the man at his side, immaculately dressed in a tux and hair gelled into submission. No one knew who Trowa Barton was. Though, of course, his last name inspired a few raised eyebrows before Trowa casually, honestly, assured them there was no relation.

 

After Zechs had made one loop of the party, he was pulled away by their host and invited to the study to discuss a few things.

 

Zechs leaned close to Trowa, brushing his lips against Trowa’s ear in a none-too-subtle almost kiss.

 

“I promise I’ll be back before you die of boredom.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Trowa said, and tossed back his second glass of champagne. “I have every intention of drinking enough to make these people seem interesting.”

 

Zechs rolled his eyes, a look of fond bemusement on his face, and walked away.

 

It was nearly an hour by the time Zechs returned, and he damn well better have figured out how to solve the radiation mutations among the third-gen Martian colonists, considering how long he had been gone and what Trowa had been subjected to.

 

It wasn’t until the third party that Trowa had attended with Zechs that he got the  _ consort treatment _ , as he had decided to call it. The significant others of the powerful men and women at the party had recognized him as one of their own - arm candy - and had descended on him with cutting remarks barely disguised by pretty words and beguiling smiles. 

 

Trowa had been amused, the first few times, had told Duo about it just to watch the other man’s open-mouthed horror as he related the story of being asked when he and Zechs were going to  _ have children _ .

 

He was no longer amused.

 

Instead, he was resigned, and thankfully halfway through his third glass of champagne when the first wave descended, when he was patronized over his job, told how lucky he was to be with someone like Zechs, asked about their summer vacation plans.

 

And then he had to listen to their complaints. About their lovers, about their children, about their servants. 

 

He should have stopped after his third glass, but the arched eyebrow of one diamond-studded matron made him reach for a fourth.

 

It was a mistake, especially when that same matron heaved a gusty sigh and launched into a tirade about how lazy her personal chef was getting with the weekly menus.

 

“Oh, I could just kill him - serving broiled asparagus twice in one week?”

 

“I’ve done that before,” Trowa said casually.

 

“Served broiled asparagus twice in one week?” A middle-aged, handsome man sporting an impressive mustache and a demonstrably lacking intellect.

 

“No,” Trowa assured them, feigning indignation, “never. But I’ve killed a man. Not over asparagus, of course, but,” he shrugged and took another sip of his champagne, “sometimes, it must be done.”

 

The cluster looked at him in silent horror as Trowa continued to drink champagne.

 

He grabbed a fruit tart from a passing server and took a thoughtful bite.

 

“How… You killed someone?” This from a young woman Trowa’s own age, her French tinged with an L1 accent.

 

“Yes,” Trowa assured her, and then finished off the tart. It was a little dry, but he  _ did _ like lingonberries. 

 

“When?” she asked. 

 

Everyone else seemed too shocked. He could see the bedazzled matron looking around, no doubt for her husband. Unfortunately for her, he was still in the study with Zechs.

 

He wondered what would happen if he lied, if he shrugged and said  _ Oh, yesterday? Just after I played squash. You know _ .

 

But he decided the truth would be more satisfying.

 

“During the war.”

 

“You fought in the war?” This question from another man, whose wife had been introduced to Trowa as someone on the ESUN Trade Commission. 

 

“I wasn’t a soldier, no.” Trowa took another sip of his champagne. He would need a glass of water soon, or he would have serious regrets tomorrow. 

 

That did nothing to alleviate their fear, and it was difficult for Trowa to keep a straight face as they looked at each other.

 

“Was it… What was it like?”

 

Clearly, none of  _ them _ had fought in the war - had never killed, had never been in any situation more horrific that being faced with a repeat vegetable dish. No one that  _ he _ considered a friend would have asked that question. No one would have needed to.

 

“Wet,” he said, the oblique answer making one woman turn from the group, a hand pressed to her mouth.

 

The matron also swept from the group, and Trowa watched her walk away with a satisfied smirk, until he saw that she was striding purposefully towards her husband. And Zechs.

 

Zechs’s face was stony as the woman started to lean into her husband, speaking furiously, one hand gesturing wildly towards Trowa.

 

Zechs’s eyes scanned the room, found Trowa, and the tall, imposing man crossed the room, his gait one of barely repressed fury.

 

_ Shit _ . Trowa might not need to wait until tomorrow to have regrets.

 

“We’re leaving,” Zechs said when he reached Trowa’s side.

 

The crowd melted away from them.

 

“Zechs-”

 

“ _ Now _ ,” the man hissed, his hand latching onto Trowa’s elbow.

 

The taller man practically hauled Trowa from the room and into the foyer, where he snapped at a servant to fetch their coats.

 

Trowa realized he was still holding his glass of champagne, and decided it was a shame to waste it. 

 

But as he raised it to his lips, Zechs reached out and took it from him, downing it in a single, undignified gulp.

 

Trowa arched an eyebrow at the immediate grimace on Zechs’s face.

 

The other man hated champagne, only ever half-heartedly sipped at it when they were in the company of his peers, and had certainly never  _ gulped _ it.

 

Their coats were passed over, and Zechs imperiously shoved the empty glass into the servant’s hand.

 

Zechs had dismissed his car earlier, when they had been dropped off, and had instructed his driver to take the rest of the night off, had said they would take a cab home.

 

But Zechs didn’t pause to call for a cab. Instead, he started angrily marching off in the general direction of their apartment.

 

Their apartment, three miles away.

 

Trowa rolled his eyes, pulled on his overcoat, and jogged a bit to catch up with the other man.

 

He quickly decided not to do  _ that _ again, however, as he felt his stomach slosh a bit, felt his fingertips tingle and his brain get decidedly tilty at the movement.

 

He kept pace with Zechs for half a mile before the other man finally slowed his furious steps to a more sedate, resigned pace.

 

Trowa suspected one of their fights was creeping up, and wondered if he would rather have it on a dark street or back in the privacy of their home.

 

“Zechs-”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the other man growled.

 

Trowa rolled his eyes again.

 

“It was nothing. It wasn’t even-”

 

“ _ Nothing _ ? You call that  _ nothing _ ?” Zechs stopped walking and whirled, glaring down at Trowa.

 

Trowa had to raise an eyebrow.

 

It had been a mistake, he knew, but it certainly didn’t merit  _ this _ level of reaction.

 

“Zechs-”

 

“That  _ man _ is a fascist. Do you know what he called Relena? He called her the scion of  _ purity _ . He said that it took people like  _ her _ , people who understood that the masses needed a shepard - the  _ right _ kind of shepard. And  _ you _ think that’s  _ nothing _ ? That man is the worst of Romefeller all over again, pissing on democracy and- Why are you  _ laughing _ ?”

 

Trowa couldn’t help the single, slightly hysterical, considerably drunken bark of laughter that escaped him.

 

“”I thought you were talking about  _ me _ ,” he breathed.

 

Zechs’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.

 

“Why would I be talking about you? What-” He paused, sighed, and closed his eyes. “What did you do?”

 

“I simply tried to get to know your friends.”

 

“Don’t call them my friends.”

 

“Your vile acquaintances, then. I told them that I killed a man.”

 

Zechs’s face went from horrified to speculative to amused.

 

“What-” he licked his lips, “what was their reaction?”

 

Trowa shrugged and started walking again. The chilly air felt good against his flushed skin. 

 

“They asked for pointers. I offered to teach a seminar next week.”

 

Zechs caught up, snorting a laugh and then linking their hands together.

 

“You’re such a liar.”

 

Trowa didn’t bother to deny it. He was, after all.

 

But not about the important things.

 

Not with Zechs.

 

“What are you going to do?” he asked after several minutes of them walking in companionable silence.

 

Zechs sighed.

 

“Tell Relena, of course. I- I hope she didn’t know. I hope Dorothy didn’t.”

 

Trowa squeezed his hand, but couldn’t offer any words of sympathy.

 

There was a reason, after all, that he hadn’t joined Preventers, that he didn’t care for politics, that he spoke with Quatre rarely now that his former comrade was the governor of L4. 

 

They were nearly home when Trowa tugged on Zechs’s sleeve, bringing him to a stop in the small park near their apartment. He led the other man over to a bench just as the first of the fireworks started to erupt in the sky overhead.

 

They held hands, and it made it difficult to tell which of them reacted first to the flares of color and the explosions of sound.

 

After a bit of it, Trowa looked away from the display and instead focused on Zechs’s profile, on the way the gold, red and blue lights washed over him.

 

“You know, I think we should get married,” Trowa decided.

 

Zechs was slow to react, belatedly dragging his gaze from the fireworks, confusion on his face.

 

“What?”

 

Trowa shrugged one shoulder.

 

“I’ve been thinking about it, and it would make my taxes go down a bit. Plus, you have far superior healthcare than I can afford, and-”

 

Zechs surged forward, kissing Trowa and pressing him back against the bench.

 

Trowa’s head banged against the iron arm-rail, and he swore and twisted away, sending the both of them sprawling onto the dirt path at their feet.

 

He landed on top of Zechs and glared down at him.

 

“Are you  _ trying _ to kill me? Shouldn’t you at least wait until after we’re married? So you’ll inherit my fortune?”

 

Zechs ran a hand over the back of Trowa’s skull, his touch gentle and soothing, but also clinical, looking for evidence of severe trauma.

 

“You have a fortune that you’ve been hiding from me all of these years?”

 

“Yes,” Trowa murmured, batting Zechs’s hand away and leaning down to kiss him. “It turns out, I’m the long-lost heir to the French throne.”

 

Zechs snorted.

 

“You didn’t answer,” Trowa pointed out.

 

Zechs looked him over, searching Trowa’s face, wondering, perhaps, how sincere Trowa was in the question.

 

“Yes,” he said at last. “Of course. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to spend a lifetime with.”

 

It was heady stuff, hearing those words from Zechs’s mouth. Echoes of his own thoughts.

 

He hoped the other man knew he felt the same.

 

As he leaned down to kiss Zechs again, and the other man held him close, Trowa suspected he did.

 

-o-

  
  



End file.
